Binary Systems [Complete, Slice-of-Life Sci-Fi Romance]

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Karen: I mean, Sears doesn't get to complain when Walmart steals their market share.

Claire: I need a drink. I'm being pitched the Karen Moore free-market model of love.

Karen: It's kind of laissez-faire, you know? Better product, better draw?

Harry: Just . . . no.

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November 27th, 2090, about 8:20 pm MST, Montana City

Karen didn't knock.

Gordon was already in bed, a movie casting faint flickers of black-and-white across his ceiling. He heard the door creak, but didn't get up.

"Don't move," Karen said. "It's your night for big feelings, right? Just make room."

She lay down on top of the covers, an arm's length away. No drama, no pretext. Just there. Present.

They watched in silence for a while. The film was slow, sad—an old war story. A soldier returns home after World War II to find everything half-collapsed: a family that got older without him, children who hadn't been fed reliably, a best friend who'd once taught at the local college now drinking himself numb. Everyone had aged ten years in five. The cows hadn't been milked. The land had gone fallow. All that effort, all that sacrifice—and this was what remained.

Karen sniffed. "Sad little girl. Sick kid. This is such a downer. I swear, I only had one condition."

She got up and rummaged around his kitchenette, going through cabinets she'd grazed from, occasionally, for years. They were familiar under her fingertips—and, as she feared, there were no shot glasses or solo cups forthcoming. In the end, she poured them both generous drinks—Fireball, of course. In pint glasses, because that was all he had. He'd told her once he liked the clean lines.

He took his glass wordlessly. It wasn't his usual beer, but she was sure he'd find a way to live with it. He seemed to—as the story progressed, the waterline dipped steadily lower. It was cold on his room—what kind of man keeps a bed without blankets? She moved her back closer to his warmth.

The movie ended. After a long pause, as the credits rolled, she said, "You let the AI pick that?"

"Yeah." His voice thrummed against her ribs. She liked it.

She shook her head and sipped. "Why would you do that?"

"Probably habit."

"The movie was about rebuilding," she went on. "Like, rebuilding a life in the ruins of what you used to have."

Then she turned to look at him, eyes narrowed slightly.

"Gordon. The AI probably thinks that's contextually appropriate for you. But it's wrong—you know that?"

"It was a bit on-the-nose," he admitted. "When I started it I thought it would be about a war hero doing hero things, I swear."

She handed him the drink. Sat back down—closer this time, but not quite touching. She thought about not commenting. Rejected the thought. Her head was swimming a little bit, but in a good way. His cheeks were pinked, but he looked more relaxed, too—finally.

She stared at the glass in her hand. Amber fluid rippled, though not much of it. "I mean, sure. It's a good movie. Sad as hell. But that ending? That's not how it works. That's not how grief works. You don't just skip to 'and then they fall in love and build a new life.' That's a stage. And you're not there yet."

He raised an eyebrow, not quite following.

"You don't get to skip to the part where everything's fixed," she said. "Where the soldier finds the widow, and they build a new life and forget all the wreckage behind them. That's a fantasy. A sweet one, maybe, but still."

She rolled over. She had to shift her shoulders away from him a little bit to turn far enough to meet his eyes. They were hooded in the track lighting, dark and thoughtful.

"The theme's completely wr—it's inappropriate for what you're going through. Right now, you need to feel your feelings."

That looked like it hit him pretty sharply. He took a long pull at his own glass—she reflected that maybe she'd overdone it a bit, but it was too late. It was empty, and he was reaching for the bottle. She surrendered it reluctantly.

"You're not rebuilding a life in the ruins of the one you had," she said. "You're still standing in the ruins. Right now. Hey, save some for me!"

He handed it over agreeably. He smelled like cinnamon, now.

"I wouldn't say that," he said after a second. "I have a lot to be thankful for. Claire, Harry. You. It takes real friends to hate what someone's planning to do and still resent the choice being taken from him. You could have been celebrating right now."

"I am pretty awesome," she admitted. "And you're not wrong—It's that we all care about you. Which is why I'm trying to tell you—you're not there yet. And it's not fair to expect yourself to be."

Her voice caught, just slightly. Not tears. . . no tears. She finished her drink, sputtering slightly as it burned its way down to her stomach. He toasted her health in silence, and she smiled a little, tipping herself a bit less this time. No need to be sloppy.

"I don't expect to be better," he said after a moment. "Not until things finally run their course and there's some closure. But . . . I appreciate you being here."

Karen exhaled, then took a careful sip. "Losing someone hurts. Death isn't the only time you're allowed to mourn. There's a reason girls in movies do the thing with ice cream and romance movies. The people who skip the grief part? They end up letting the stress out later anyway. Usually, on someone who doesn't deserve it."

She thought about her father and his divorce. Angry tears brimmed on the sides of her lashes, probably from the drink. She'd blame the drink. She told him what she'd have told her dad, all those years ago, if she'd known how.

"There's a reason it's called the stages of grief. Because they're stages. You can't skip them like cutscenes in a game, they're. . . lessons. If you don't feel anger, you'll wonder if you truly cared, looking back later. If you don't deny the finality of your loss, you'll judge yourself for not trying to think through your options."

He didn't respond, but he didn't look away either.

"You're supposed to be angry. Or empty. Or numb. Or stuck. Or just. . . tired. There's no shame for going through it, Gordon. You're allowed to feel hurt."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

She leaned back, not angry, just steady. Was that catharsis? Perhaps it was just the second glass hitting. "Anyone who doesn't take that into account—isn't showing up for you the way you need. Maybe you loved her. Maybe still do. That doesn't just go away in a week or two."

It was true, but she didn't love saying it.

"Letting the address autofill on your emails is one thing," she added, softer. "But don't take emotional cues on handling Marie from your schedule planner. If you need a distraction, lean on us, me, not your AI."

"Could we just not talk about Marie?" he asked.

"Sure," she shrugged.

She adjusted her skirt, fidgeting. It was one she liked—soft, blue and purple stripes—but one she only wore on certain kinds of dates. Not the kind of thing she normally wore around Gordon. Skirts didn't go with wall-running unless you wanted everyone to see what was underneath.

But today, she hadn't expected any wall-running. Today, she had picked out the skirt on purpose. Paired it with a simple topaz pendant, a blue mock top with lace accents—everything simple, clean, flattering. Just enough to be noticed. Just enough to suggest: If this isn't a date, it could be. In five minutes. If you notice.

They sat quietly for a while. Another drink. The kind of silence where you can hear each other breathe. Peace.

"I never want you to think I'm pushing you to just get over her," she said. "I'm not trying to disrespect your feelings like that. But—I do need to tell you something."

He turned slightly.

"About Adam."

Gordon blinked. "Adam?"

"My boyfriend. For two years. Remember him?"

"Yeah. Sandy-haired. Built like a fireplug."

"I broke up with him because I was falling for someone else."

He looked at her.

"It was you," she said. "I couldn't keep doing it once I knew."

The moment hung between them.

Gordon stared at the ceiling.

She reached for the remote and picked a different movie. A dog movie this time. Classic Tom Hanks. Neither of them was much of a dog person, but it didn't demand anything of them. No emotional bandwidth got used up—just nice dialog, dated music, slightly hokey camerawork. Classics are classics for a reason.

Midway through, he spoke.

"I wish I'd known that. About Adam. A long time ago."

She nodded slowly. "I used to think it was just bad timing. But I've realized I wasn't being honest. I already knew what I wanted. I was just scared to say it."

He looked troubled.

"That's why I've been trying to show you," she said, heartbeat loud in her ears. "What I want now. . . is you."

And yes, she wore the skirt for him. And no, she hadn't worn anything underneath.

The idea had been that he'd only find out about that if he reached for her.

He wasn't saying anything, just looking at her with those green eyes, shadowed like a hawk's. He looked disarmed and reeling. She decided to let him have a second to think.

She watched the screen, but Tom's charms were lost on her—it might as well have been blank. Mind wandering, she glanced over at Gordon's computer. Lines of code filled the screen—multiple windows open. One side showed resource files and Java documentation, the other side e-books about pandemic protocols, long-saved guides on data structures, and object-oriented programming. Basics, references fit for use throughout a programming career. She'd flipped through some, once, on his bookshelf: bone dry stuff. Like reading a dictionary.

"So Gordon," she asked lightly, "whatcha working on?"

"I just needed something to take my mind off things. It's easier when it doesn't involve people. It's nothing serious, though. I'm just . . . doodling. Um."

Oops. That had been her fault, elbowing him. Oh well, he'd done enough talking for one night anyway.

"Boooring," she booed. "Avoiding people is awful for you," she replied. Her voice wasn't wavering, despite the drink. She felt a little proud of that. She refilled his cup and poured another for herself. "And doing boooring stuff has got to make it worse. Besides. . ."

She took a last swig. "I came here planning to take your mind off things anyway." She put the drink down and snuggled closer to him. He could use a shave, but she decided she liked him anyway.

He turned to look at her, brow raised. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well," she teased, "before we were rudely interrupted, I think I'd gotten about this far." She rolled over astride him, one leg kicking over gracefully. Her skirt shifted, then settled about them in a way that maintained decency but would not leave him ignorant of his new circumstances.

"Focus up," she said. "This should be better than that movie."

–––❖–––

For the second time in two weeks, Gordon woke up with a girl in his arms.

Guilt warred with comfort—and the brain fog of a fading hangover.
Inertia won.

Karen's face was gentle as she slept, and somehow more nakedly vulnerable than when she was awake. No quips, no smirks, no weaponized cheerfulness. Just the quiet rise and fall of breath, her mouth barely parted, blonde hair tangled over his arm like a silken tether.

His hand, he realized, was resting against the small of her back. Bare skin. Familiar now.

The sunlight through the window cast long strips of light across the bed, making the whole moment feel more real than he was ready for.

He didn't want to move.

The guilt crept in slowly, like creeping gooseflesh up his back. He really needed to get a comforter or something if he was going to be spending time in bed naked.

Was he committed to doing that?

He just. . . hadn't stopped Karen. No, that was unfair. He wasn't being fair.

He wondered if it would ever happen again.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, his thoughts sluggish, murky.
Karen shifted slightly in her sleep, curling closer, one leg sliding over his. A sleepy hum escaped her throat, not quite a word.

He swallowed. Closed his eyes.

Just a few more minutes.

–––❖–––

His Portable's holo display lit up like an emergency beacon, screen cluttered with stacked alerts.
None of them were from Marie.

Binary Systems internal memos, meeting pings, a flag on a sponsorship issue—irrelevant. Noise. It all blurred together into white noise.

Gordon skimmed the list twice without reading them.

"Call in sick for me," he mumbled, voice dry and hoarse. The AI chirped obediently in its polite tone.

"Acknowledged. Sick day registered. Would you like to notify your direct reports?"

"No," he said. "They'll figure it out."

The AI didn't protest.

He removed his portable from his forearm, the subdermal magnets standing flush against his skin for an instant, then set the device gently onto its charging cradle next to the half-empty bottle of last night's Fireball.

His stomach churned.

He turned away from it, wandered to the kitchenette window, and stared out at the weak Montana daylight filtering over frost-spangled grass. The light was harsh, too bright to be winter. Just like every other winter morning.

Then Karen walked in.

Hair still damp, earrings in, eyes bright. She moved with the confidence of someone who knew she was wanted. Her blouse was tucked neatly, but she moved carefully, a bit bowleggedly. Gordon noticed.

"Morning," she said, grinning. "You look like you need about three more hours of sleep."

"I could use a solid week," he complained. The coffee steaming in his hands wasn't kicking in.

She bent down and kissed him—light, real, affectionate. It felt good. Familiar already. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck. She pulled away slow.

"I've got to run," she said, grabbing the newly full mug from the k-cup machine and adulterating it with creamer. She sipped it at speed—something Gordon had never been able to want to be able to do. His mouth screamed in pain just watching her. She blotted her lips with a paper towel and planted a last kiss on him, then left in a flurry of early morning energy. Bright, happy.

He smiled after her, then caught himself. What did he want?

His feet itched to move. He followed her up the hall, down the stairs—but she must have been skipping, or gone another route. He found himself in the sterile, office-building-feeling lobby with no Karen in sight. Oh well.

His coffee was cooling, now—enough to sip. He took his time returning to his suite, enjoying the medium heat brew, the warmth soaking into his stomach.

"HARRY! YES, you STUD!"

The feminine exclamations broke his inward concentration, and he became aware of a thudding sound through the hallway wall. A smirk on his mouth, ears burning, Gordon fled for the safety of innocence and ignorance.